


Come/Home

by PrincexPhoenix



Series: Bad Things Bingo 2020 [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:55:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27757255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincexPhoenix/pseuds/PrincexPhoenix
Summary: He was looking at her with those terrible, cold hazel eyes. Will once told her Hannibal had microexpressions that were impossible to read. If that was the case, Molly thought, this was less a microexpression and more a flashing neon sign that spelled out hatred. She swallowed and lifted her hand to smooth her hair. It was the hand that was attached to his, and his eyes grew even colder.Filling the "Chained Heat" square of Bad Things Bingo!
Relationships: Molly Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Molly Graham & Will Graham, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: Bad Things Bingo 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2030467
Comments: 5
Kudos: 120
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	Come/Home

_**George MacDonald, ‘The Shortest and Sweetest of Songs’.** _

**__** _Come/Home._

Molly’s head hurt. It throbbed like it used to when she was a teenager and drank too much with her friends. She whimpered and curled around her stomach, pressing her hand to her forehead. It was hot under her hand, and something cold pressed against it. She cracked open one eye and looked at her wrist. There was the unmistakable silvery gleam of handcuffs and, for a moment, she thought that she was in jail. She groaned aloud. The last time she was in jail for drinking too much, she was twenty, and had been breaking her ex’s things. Now Wally would be alone, and yes, he was thirteen and had eight dogs looking after him, but it wasn’t a good look.

She tugged her handcuffed hand and watched another wrist flop into view. She stared at it, and then at her other hand, which had no handcuff on it. She looked back at the wrist, noting the vertical scar on it, and followed it to its source.

Ash blonde hair. High cheekbones. Lips that looked like they were out of a catalogue and could not possibly be natural. Long, dark lashes resting against smooth skin. Molly stared at the face of Hannibal Lecter, her worst nightmare, and screamed.

“Hey!” someone shouted, and Molly looked out the cell door. There was a man sitting in a small guard room, poking his head out the doorway, a scowl on his face. He had a scar down one cheek, and his expression was cold. “Keep it quiet, bitch.”

“What kind of cop talks like that?” Molly asked.

The man laughed. “I’m not a cop. Now shut the fuck up.”

He slammed the door shut and Molly turned that over in her head. The last thing she could remember was… she couldn’t remember anything beyond being on her porch, a glass of whiskey in her hands, as the night grew long. She sat up, rubbing her head, and looked over at the unconscious Hannibal.

He was looking at her with those terrible, cold hazel eyes. Will once told her Hannibal had microexpressions that were impossible to read. If that was the case, Molly thought, this was less a microexpression and more a flashing neon sign that spelled out hatred. She swallowed and lifted her hand to smooth her hair. It was the hand that was attached to his, and his eyes grew even colder.

“Wrong move,” she muttered to herself.

He said nothing, just stared at her, unblinking.

“Do you know where we are?”

No answer. Molly chewed on the inside of her cheek.

“Why are we both here?”

Still nothing.

“Are you going to stare me to death?” she snapped.

That earned her a slight narrowing of his eyes, and one blink. Molly took it and forced a smile on her face. She hoped it was a smile, anyway, and that it at least looked somewhat appeasing. What she was feeling was anything but. Hannibal sat up and looked down at their conjoined hands, running his fingers along the cuffs. There was no gap between his skin and the metal, and he grimaced.

“Do you have a bobby pin?”

His light, accented voice surprised her. She half-expected him to sound like the Nazis in Indiana Jones. This was the mild-mannered tone of an aristocrat, which was even scarier, in Molly’s opinion. No wonder he hid in plain sight for so long.

“Ms. Foster. Do you have a bobby pin? It’s a thin bit of plastic or metal, with one straight side and one wavy side, used to fasten hair in place.” He was speaking slowly, enunciating each word, and Molly felt the insult prickling at her skin.

“I know what a bobby pin is,” she said. With her free hand she felt along her hair, seeking out the bobby pin she used to push her bangs out of her eyes while taking care of the dogs. It was missing and her hand fell back to her side. “They took it.”

“Useless,” he muttered to himself, looking back down at the cuffs. Hers was flush against her skin as well, and when he reached out to touch it, she drew her hand back. He pursed his lips and glared at her. “What have I done to deserve being chained to the likes of you?”

“Eating people, probably,” Molly said. “Murder. Take your pick, really.”

“It was a rhetorical question. A rhetorical question is when-”

“I know what it is!” Molly glared at him. “I’m not an idiot.”

“That,” he said, dryly, “is the surprise of the evening.”

She narrowed her eyes and was about to say something when the door to the guard room slammed open. Scarface, as Molly named him, came striding out, a taser rod in his hands. As he approached, Molly had the briefest recollection of sipping whiskey before a flash of purple-white came from the left and pressed into her side. It was the same purple-white that was arcing between the two prongs of the taser rod and Molly swallowed. 

“I told you to be quiet,” Scarface snarled, tapping the bars. “Don’t make me come in there. This will all be over soon.”

Hannibal gazed up at Scarface, curling his lip. “Do you realise how generic you sound?”

“I don’t get paid to be fancy,” Scarface said. “I get paid to beat you back into submission. Is that something I need to do?”

“I invite you to try.”

“I don’t,” Molly said, raising her free hand. “We’ll be quiet.”

“Listen to the lady,” Scarface said, gesturing to her. “She’s sensible.”

Sensible. That was her to a fault, she thought. Sensible, solid Molly. Never done much wrong in her life, never took a real risk, never had a real adventure. It suited her just fine. She had a son, and other lives that depended upon her. Being sensible was safe, and being safe was her top priority.

Hannibal was quiet, eyeing the handcuffs, rattling them every so often. Without anything further to silence, Scarface wandered back to his room and closed the door again. Through the small window, Molly could see he was watching something bright and colourful. He was laughing, and she slumped, sure he wouldn’t hear whispering.

“Listen,” she muttered out of the side of her mouth. “Is there any way you can get us out of these cuffs?”

She hated herself for even asking for his help.

“If I had a saw,” Hannibal said. 

“What would you do with a saw?”

“Cut off your hand.”

That, Molly thought, was on her. She didn’t know what she expected. Sighing, she ran her fingers through her hair. She couldn’t understand why she and Hannibal, of all people, were handcuffed in a cell together. They had absolutely nothing in common. He tried to get her killed once, and she cut all ties with Will-

Will.

“Fuck,” Molly said.

“That took you a long time to figure out,” he said. He was calm as he watched her. “Why else would someone go through the trouble to keep us together?”

“I assume he’s coming to collect you,” Molly said.

His lips stretched into a smile. “Me, yes.”

The message was clear. She closed her eyes and counted to ten. Her therapist recommended that whenever things were too overwhelming. When she opened her eyes, things were still too overwhelming. She made a mental note to get a new therapist if she got out of this alive.

If. The odds were stacked against her, and she felt an edge of panic. She was still young, and Wally, he was only thirteen. Will was still listed as his adopted dad - would custody go to him? They were never officially divorced. It was hard to send divorce papers to a murderer on the run, and it was too painful to ask Jack Crawford to arrange it. Molly took several deep breaths and the panic eased somewhat.

“I suppose we can just wait for Will,” she said.

Hannibal’s eyes flashed. “You aren’t allowed to call him that.”

“What, his name?”

“Yes.”

Molly stared at him, and her jaw set. “Fine. We can just wait for my _husband_ , then.”

If looks could kill, she would be dead six ways to Tuesday. Molly thought about Hannibal and Will eating her kidneys and shuddered. She wasn’t dead yet, and that meant something. What it meant, she didn’t dare think about. There was still a chance she could escape.

“What will it take for you to break us out of here?” Molly asked.

Hannibal scoffed. “Your life.”

Molly rattled the cuffs. “Try again.”

“You’re asking me to save you. I dictate the price you will pay.”

“No deal, then,” Molly said. “I guess we’ll just wait for Wi - for my husband.”

“Do you really think whoever kidnapped us has any intention of letting us go alive?” Hannibal asked. “He will kill us while Will watches, and then kill Will. There is no ending, Ms. Foster, where you and I get out alive, except the one that we choose to make.”

Molly said nothing. She pulled her knees to her chest and rested her chin on them, looking through the guard room window. If she squinted, she could make out what was happening on the TV screen. It was a kid’s cartoon, something that Wally used to watch when he was younger. Scarface was a big softy, she realised, and felt a spark of hope. 

“Hey!” she called out, hitting the bars with the heel of her palm. “Hey! You! In the room!”

Scarface looked over at her and gave her the middle finger. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Hannibal’s eyes narrow and his lips press together. Molly ignored them both and kept hitting the bars and yelling.

“What?” Scarface yelled, the door cracking against the wall. “For fuck’s sake, lady, shut up!”

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Molly said.

“So? Go.”

Molly looked around the cell and at Scarface. “Come on, don’t make me pee here. It’ll spread, and we’ll be lying in it.”

“Why should I care?” Scarface said, but he was hesitating.

“You can watch me,” Molly said, shoving down her shiver of disgust. “Just, please, don’t make me pee here. It’s embarrassing.”

Scarface paused for a long moment, darting his eyes between her and Hannibal. He activated the taser rod and aimed it at Hannibal. “If you try anything, Lecter, I’ll kill the lady. You understand?”

“Perfectly,” Hannibal said.

Great, Molly thought, her heart sinking. Either she was going to be killed by the guard, or by Hannibal. Setting her shoulders, she decided to think about the future where neither killed her.

Scarface opened the cell door and Molly stood. Hannibal followed suit, and she saw him at his full height. He was thin and wiry, most of his strength in his core. His silhouette was similar to Will’s, and Molly felt a pang from an old wound. He looked at her with the same wintry stare he gave her when they first woke up, and Scarface cleared his throat.

“Come on, then,” he said, gesturing.

Molly stepped forward, and again, until the cuff dug into her wrist. She looked behind her. Hannibal was still, his eyes on Scarface, an unpleasant look on his face.

“Oh G-d, no,” Molly said in a rush just before Hannibal leaped forward, cracking Scarface’s neck.

He fell to the ground in a glassy-eyed heap, his head turned almost all the way around. Like the owl that lived in the tree closest to the house, Molly thought. Their eyes were the same colour, although she imagined that Scarface wasn’t going to see much anymore.

“What the fuck?” she said, her voice climbing into a shriek.

“He was discourteous,” Hannibal said, searching Scarface’s corpse. “I find discourtesy to be an unforgivable sin.”

“But murder’s perfectly fine,” Molly said, her voice cracking. Scarface looked so young in death. Nothing more than a young man, with a mother somewhere waiting for him to call.

“Here.” Hannibal was extending a gun, and Molly wrapped her fingers around it. “He has no key to our handcuffs. It appears, for now, we are still bound together, Ms. Foster.”

She thought about shooting him and going back into the cell to wait for Will. Her intentions must have been written on her face, because Hannibal spoke again, somehow mixing condescension and gentleness.

“If you killed me, you would sign your own death warrant. Will would not hesitate to exact revenge.”

Molly lowered the gun. “But not if you killed me?”

He said nothing, and Molly lifted her eyebrows. It clicked into place, and she felt the tension leave her, bone-melting relief replacing it. 

“Fucking Will,” she said softly. 

The sweet, gentle man she married was nothing but a construct. She understood that, knew it when he didn’t shed a tear over her hospital bed, or express any remorse for the danger he put her and Wally in by going back to the case. Still, he kept surprising her in small ways, like sending her monthly checks to make sure the dogs and Wally would be okay, or by making sure his cannibal boyfriend wouldn’t murder her. She met Hannibal’s eyes and knew she was right when he looked away first.

“This is how it’s going to be,” she said, cocking the pistol. “You’re going to get us out of here, get these cuffs off without amputating any part of me, and then I’m going to go back home. You can go to Will or whatever the fuck you want to do.”

“Kind of you to grant me permission,” Hannibal said.

“You’re such a bitch,” Molly said.

“It’s been said.”

She was surprised to hear the dry humour in his words. She didn’t smile. “Lead the way, then.”

He examined her before searching Scarface again. He came away with a gleaming butterfly knife and opened it with a flick of his wrist. The blade rested against his bound hand, pressing down until blood bloomed, and he shook his head.

“It would never cut through bone,” he said, more to himself than anything else. 

With another flick of his wrist, he set it back to rights and held it in a loose grip. He began to walk forward with no consideration as to his pace, and Molly had to jog to keep up. Every so often he paused to tilt his head up and sniff at the air. At last they turned a corner and Hannibal stopped. Molly bumped into him and rubbed her nose, glaring at the back of his head.

Then she looked in front of him and paled. There were five men sitting at a round table, playing cards arranged before them. A few of them had cigarettes clamped in between their teeth, smoke curling up from their lips like smokestacks. The silence stretched out to its breaking point.

“Poker?” Hannibal asked at last, tilting his head.

“Gin,” one of the men said. 

“With so many people?” Hannibal sighed. “Let’s even the odds a little.”

Quick as a snake, he opened the butterfly knife and flung it towards the man that spoke. It embedded itself in between his eyes, and the man dropped down face first onto the table. Blood spread out in a pool around him, obscuring the cards. The remaining four men sprung into action, lunging towards Hannibal. One of them had a knife outstretched, and Molly shot him in the shoulder, sending him spinning back before it could reach Hannibal. 

From there it was a flurry of punches. Molly tried to aim the gun at their assailants, but they all were on top of Hannibal. He bit one of the men’s shoulders, two others holding his arms back, and tore out a hunk of flesh. He spat it to the side, where it landed at Molly’s feet, and the wounded man reeled back, screaming. With a crack, he slammed his head against one of the men holding him back and broke free.

The cuff bit into Molly’s wrist as Hannibal lunged forward, grabbing the butterfly knife from the first man. He slashed the throat of one of the men, leaving him holding the wound as he died, and buried the point of it in the eye of another man.

Something sharp and cold pressed against Molly’s throat and a hand clamped over her mouth. She screamed, muffled, and Hannibal turned, his mouth bloody.

“Stand down, or I kill her,” the man holding Molly said. His knife pricked her skin, and she felt something warm trail down her neck. “I mean it, you freak!”

Hannibal grinned, his teeth red. “Try it,” he said.

The man cursed and pressed the knife in more. The image of Dolarhyde, screaming at the night, appeared before her eyes. She glared at Hannibal, pouring forth all her rage and hatred into her stare. His expression shifted, and he threw the knife. It flew over her shoulder, burying its point in the man’s throat. He gurgled once and fell onto his back. The room was silent except for her and Hannibal’s panting. 

He bent down, forcing her to bend down with him or be yanked around. He said nothing as he ripped off part of a shirt and turned to her, lifting his eyebrows.

“You’re bleeding,” he said through clenched teeth. “Allow me.”

Molly pointed the gun at him as he advanced, holding the strip of white cloth out like a peace offering. “You’re going to strangle me with it,” she said, eyeing it.

“Please,” Hannibal said. “If I wanted to strangle you, I would do it with my hands.”

“Real fucking reassuring,” Molly said, jabbing the muzzle of the gun into his solar plexus. “Get away from me. I’m fine.”

Frustration and worry passed over his face, a fleeting image. “Will would be furious,” he said, and passed her the strip of cloth. “So please. It will continue to bleed if you do not apply pressure, and this will act as a bandage.”

Her anger slowed at the mention of Will, and she took the strip of cloth. Hannibal took two steps back, far enough that their hands were lifted partway up their body. She glared at him and tied it herself, pulling tight. The small nick on her throat did feel better, she had to admit. She looked around them, taking in the carnage. The shock of the five dead men around her still hadn’t hit, she thought. Adrenaline was pumping through her veins. 

He stepped around her, crouching by the corpse. He pulled out the knife, shaking off the blood. She watched the thick red drops splatter on the tiles and shuddered. She felt lightheaded, and placed the back of her hand to her forehead.

“Can you move?”

Molly looked up, meeting his gaze. It was cool and appraising, and she wondered what he was thinking. 

“Yes,” she said. 

“We should keep going. That had to attract attention.”

They went through the doorway. Hannibal held his knife in a white-knuckled grip now, looking around each corner before he went. Molly followed close behind, holding the gun close to her, looking over her shoulder. At one point, she thought she heard footsteps other than their own, but the chain of the handcuffs stretched tight and she scurried after Hannibal, trying to keep up with his long, angry strides. 

After an interminable time spent walking, they entered another well-lit room. Molly came up beside Hannibal, looking around. There was nobody in the room with them, and she spied a fridge. Her stomach rumbled and she placed a hand on it, turning red.

“We have no time to stop,” Hannibal said, looking down at her.

“I’m not going to be much use to you if I’m starving,” Molly said.

“You’re no use to me now,” Hannibal said, but he let her lead them to the fridge.

Inside were bottles of water and Molly grabbed one, twisting off the cap and downing half of it in one go. She burped and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. Hannibal was looking at her with no small amount of distaste and she ignored him, rifling through the drawers for something suitable to eat. She came away with two bags of trail mix and tossed one at him.

“You have to eat too,” she said.

He tilted his head and opened the bag, sniffing it. Grimacing, he reached in and grabbed a handful, lifting it to his mouth. Molly wolfed down her share and finished off her bottle of water. She waited while he finished his trail mix and took a bottle of water, sipping it. It gave her an opportunity to really look at him, and try to see what Will saw in him. It was hard. The fact that the man before her tried to kill her son was all she could think about, and her hand tightened around the gun. If Will didn’t scare her, she would have shot Hannibal the moment he gave it to her.

He finished his water and took two more bottles, passing one to her. “We need to keep moving, Ms. Foster.”

She nodded, and they set off again. The silence was eerie, and her adrenaline was starting to fade. Her steps lagged behind his, until her arm was pulled out and his was pulled back. He was forced to slow down, looking over his shoulder at her with the shadow of irritation. Molly shrugged, too tired to care, and he stopped and turned to face her.

“Do you need to be carried?”

She almost laughed. “You are _not_ touching me.”

“You’re moving too slow.”

“Tough shit,” she said.

He narrowed his eyes. “Your stubbornness is not as charming as you seem to believe it is. We would make better time, and avoid trouble, if you let me carry you.”

“And I said you aren’t touching me.” She folded her arms as best she could, given that one of her hands was dependent on him for movement. “So adapt. Will always said you liked to throw words like that around.”

His expression shuttered. “He spoke to you about me?”

Molly smiled bitterly. "Only when he couldn't help it. I used to think it was hard for him, remembering you, you know? But I guess now we both know the hard part was forgetting." 

She thought of Will, in the middle of the night, sneaking down to their living room and lighting a fire. He would read all the letters and cards he thought she knew nothing about, and go to burn them to ash and smoke. He never did, bringing them back to the room and slipping them into his sock drawer. Then he would climb back into bed, wrap his arms around her, and bury his face in her hair as if she could block out what he really wanted. 

She realised she was almost crying, and shook her head, scoffing.

“What is it about you?” she asked, staring at Hannibal. “You drove him crazy, you framed him, you tried to kill everyone he cared about, and yet he still went with you. Why? What can you give him that I can’t?”

She expected him to gloat, or to make a snide remark.

“Understanding,” Hannibal said instead, and kept walking without another word.

Molly followed, turning the word over and over in her head. Understanding. The thought made her angry. She understood parts of Will that Hannibal never would. She loved the part of Will that would tend to every injured animal Wally brought home. Then there was the part of Will that stood in a freezing cold river, waiting for a fish to bite, sometimes for hours. Even the part of Will that stood in the forest at night, looking up at the sky, the summer wind tousling his hair. They would embrace, staring at the stars, and those were the memories Molly kept close to her heart. Hannibal could never taint those, and even if his presence had always been in the room, an ever-widening fissure between her and Will, he could never take away the way Will used to smile at her, mischievous and loving, when he thought she wasn’t looking.

They rounded a corner and Hannibal stopped, holding out his arm. Molly peered under it and saw a single man standing before them. He was holding a shotgun, and had on a fedora.

“You just had to make this hard, didn’t you?” Fedora said, pumping the shotgun. “You could have stayed in your cell, like a good boy, and we would all be happy.” He spotted Molly and grinned. “Got yourself a bit of takeout?”

Molly made a face and gripped her pistol. Hannibal said nothing, lowering his arm. Fedora gestured with the shotgun, all of his attention back on Hannibal.

“Get against the wall, Lecter. You too, Graham.”

“It’s Foster,” Molly and Hannibal said at the same time.

“Foster, then,” Fedora said. “Now.”

Hannibal went first and Molly had no choice but to follow. He lifted his free hand and they lifted their bound hands as far as they could. Fedora put the end of the shotgun against Hannibal’s back, his pointer closing around the trigger.

“Boss wanted to wait for your boyfriend to come first,” he said. “But, like you, Lecter, I’m a pragmatist. I think you’d be better off dead.”

“That is the wisest course,” Hannibal agreed.

The fabric of his shirt bunched up around the shotgun as Fedora dug it further into his skin. “Any last words I should pass on?”

“Yes,” Hannibal said, meeting Molly’s gaze. “Shoot.”

Fedora hesitated and Molly lifted the gun and fired. The sound was deafening and she grit her teeth against the pain. Fedora dropped the shotgun and Hannibal reacted, using the metal chain of the handcuffs to strangle. It brought Molly close to them both, and she saw every moment of Fedora’s death. He scrabbled at the chain, his face going from pale to red, and then purple, veins swollen against his skin, thin whistles escaping him as the breath was squeezed from him. Hannibal’s face was expressionless, and at last Fedora was limp.

Hannibal dropped him and brushed off his front. “An adequate shot.”

She found that her throat wasn’t working the way she wanted. It took her three tries to speak. “Fuck you.”

His glare was unimpressed, and he took the shotgun in his hand. “I normally find guns remove the intimacy of the fight,” he said. “However, given our current situation, perhaps an exception could be made.”

Molly said nothing, still looking at Fedora’s corpse. He would have killed Hannibal, if she let him. Instead, she caved, because saving his life was saving hers. It was a selfish, sick feeling in her stomach, crawling through her body and devouring what good there was. If she just accepted that Will would kill her for it - if she just accepted that her small life was a worthy sacrifice for the greater good, she would have saved a staggering amount of people.

Hannibal rested the shotgun on his shoulder and gave the handcuffs a tug. “Come.”

Molly dug her feet in. “I’m not a dog,” she said. “My name is g-ddamn Molly Foster, and you’re going to use it. I came to terms with the fact that Will loves you. You can come to terms with the fact that he loved me too.”

“He didn’t,” Hannibal said. “You were nothing but a comma in his life, _Molly_.”

She tried not to let the words sting, but they did, and like a shark smelling blood in the water, Hannibal focused on it.

"What did he see in you?"

"What?"

Hannibal was glaring at her. "He left me for three years, and spent them with you. What drove him to do that?"

She looked at his hair, his eyes, even the shape of his face. She scoffed again and shook her head. "You really don't know?" she asked. "You really don't see it?"

His expression changed, looking so surprised and awed that it hurt. Molly had to look away.

"We're almost there," she said, and this time, she led the way.

The sunlight was a relief and her knees shook with the effort to keep standing. They were in a parking lot somewhere, and the sound of traffic was like music. Molly looked around, noting that there were a few cars around that she could take. Hannibal was looking towards the right and Molly followed his gaze, her heart freezing in her chest.

Even covered in blood, she would know that face anywhere. Will was striding towards them, a knife in his hands, the smears of red contrasting with the bright blue of his eyes. There was a shape behind him, and Molly realised it was a mass of organs and skin. She felt sick as he stopped before them, his eyes locked on Hannibal.

“You’re all right,” he said, and then grinned. “I never should have doubted you.”

Hannibal reached out and pulled Will close, pressing against him for a kiss. Molly looked away, feeling her stomach twist. Hannibal moved his other hand to tangle in Will’s hair, and Molly’s fingers brushed his curls.

The small touch must have been enough to break Will's happiness because he pulled away and looked over at her, surprise widening his eyes. He smoothed his expression a second later, but he wasn’t like Hannibal. Molly could read him like an old and worn book.

“Molly,” he said, and then looked down at her wrist. He followed the link to Hannibal’s wrist and his brow furrowed. “Oh.”

“Did you happen to find a key?” Hannibal asked, smiling at Will, pressing their foreheads together.

“No, but don’t worry,” Will said, and a few minutes later, the cuffs sprung open. 

He put the lockpicking kit back into his pocket and Molly stepped back, holding up the gun with shaking hands. Will and Hannibal exchanged a glance, and Hannibal scowled. He still walked a few feet away and turned his back on them, hands clasped in front of him. Will half-smiled at Molly and stepped forward, placing his hand over hers.

His touch was still warm. She felt like someone was squeezing the breath from her.

“You’re not a killer, Molly,” he said, taking the gun from her. “I’m sorry you were wrapped up in this.”

Molly reclaimed her hands and sniffed. “Yeah,” she said, telling herself she wasn’t going to cry. She wasn’t, not over Will. “We’re still married, so I guess they saw that and thought you cared about me.”

It came out filled with more bitterness than she intended, and Will sighed. He looked away from her, his lips twitching downwards.

“I wish I could have been what you needed, Mol.”

“Don’t lie,” Molly said. “Please. For once.”

Will paused and pulled at his lower lip with his teeth. When he looked back at her, his eyes were cold and dead. “Living with you and Wally was like wearing a suit that, no matter how hard I tried, wouldn’t fit. Eventually I would tear it.”

A shiver ran through her at the thought. “So you left instead,” she said.

“Yes.”

She sniffed again. “Are you going to come after us?”

“No,” he said, taking her hands in his. “I promise, you and Wally are safe. I’m never going to hurt you, and I’m never going to let you be hurt.”

“Too late,” Molly said, and while her eyes were wet, she refused to let the tears fall. “Was any of you real? Did the person I love exist?”

“A version of him did,” Will said, and pulled her into a hug.

His smell changed, she noted as she hugged him back, burying her face in his shoulder. There was a bit of wetness on the top of her head, and she realised he was crying. It somehow made it easier to bear, knowing that he was hurting too. They parted, and he wiped under her eyes.

“I’ll keep sending the money,” he said. “Will you give the dogs some kisses from me?”

“No,” Molly said, shaking her head. “You - you don’t get to have it both ways, Will. Either you choose him completely, or you don’t. I won’t have you haunting my home like some damn spectre.”

He stepped back, his expression closing. “Goodbye, Molly.”

Molly turned away and went to one of the cars. She waited for hands to close around her neck, or the report of a shotgun. Neither ever came, and she hotwired the nicest car she could and drove away. After a few hours of driving without direction, she pulled over to a gas station and asked to use the telephone.

The gruff voice on the other side sounded rousted from sleep. “Jack Crawford.”

“Jack, It’s Molly Foster,” Molly said. She almost laughed. “I have one hell of a story to tell you, but first, will you come get me? I’m in Chicago, and I would really love to go home to my son.”


End file.
